Now, I sit frozen at our kitchen table, watching Mom with her head in her hands while the local news plays the court decision on repeat.
Drew paces the living room like a caged animal, muttering about lawyers and appeals and "those bastard suits."
My phone lights up every few minutes. His name. Then darkness. Over and over until the sight of it feels like sandpaper dragging across my heart.
Part of me wonders if I'm punishing him.
The truth is simpler: I'm just trying to survive.
How do I talk to the man who made you feel safe and warm, when he was actually holding a match to dynamite? Who turned his back the moment everything exploded?
Eventually, I shove my phone under a pile of textbooks and pretend I've moved on.
Days become weeks.
Dad remains in custody. The evidence piles up in the court of public opinion: stories from coworkers who "always knew something was off," commentators calling him greedy, reckless, stupid. Calling me a pathetic gold digger.
Mom stops watching the news.
Drew starts drinking more on the porch.
I throw myself into work. My friends stop reaching out. Or maybe I stop answering. Either way, the silence becomes permanent.
The engagement ring stays buried in the backyard. I've taken to sipping morning coffees while I stare at the spot I buried it.
Celebrating the implosion of my life and telling myself it doesn't get worse.
Turns out I'm wrong. It does get worse.
It's nearly ten when my shift at Mima's ends.
The diner's almost empty—just old Mr. Chen nursing his third coffee at the counter and the cook scraping down the grill in back. I'm counting tips, sorting crumpled bills by denomination, when the bell over the door chimes.
I glance up, my hands stilling over the money.
Molly.
She looks different. Uncertain. Like she's not sure she belongs here.
"Hey," she says quietly.
"Hey." The word scrapes out of me. We haven't talked since the whispers started.
"Can I get a coffee?"
I glance at the clock. "We're closing in—"
"Please, Bree."
Something in her voice stops my refusal. I nod, pouring her a cup with hands that shake just enough to notice. When I set it on the counter, she doesn't sit. Instead, she carries it to the corner booth—our booth, the one Jordan and I always claimed—and waits.
"Molly, I really need to finish closing—"
"Sit with me." Not a question. "Please."
The cook waves me off before I can protest. "Go on, kid. I got this."
So I slide into the booth across from her, still wearing my grease-stained apron, exhaustion pulling at every muscle.
